


The Most Dangerous Thing of All

by ProfessorLizard



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorLizard/pseuds/ProfessorLizard
Summary: "He will come home to me, and we will be happy again.  He swore it.  He swore that I would be the first, and he has never broken a promise to me before."
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 198





	The Most Dangerous Thing of All

**Author's Note:**

> My old account got deleted, so here's my first fic in this fandom from my new one!
> 
> I'm shit with summaries. Basically this takes place after Hector stabs Patroclus, written POV Achilles.

My hands clench and unclench, as I pace the tent. I cannot stand the stillness.

The camp is nearly empty, and the silence is excruciating.

There are shouts and clamours in the distance. Insides twisting with anxiousness, I push past the flap and step out onto the grass, craning my head and shielding my eyes against the sun to see the battlefield. From so far away, the armies themselves are just massive, breathing shapes; two enormous silhouettes spilling across the earth, titans fighting each other with fists made of men. 

My eyes strain to see the flash of gold armour. To catch the gleaming chariot cutting through the Trojan defenses, forcing them back from our ships. Blessed with godlike abilities as I am, it is a disappointment to realize- I cannot tell which one is him. I cannot see him from up here.

I frown.

It has to end soon. The battle has been going on for some time. The sun, which had sat high in a clear blue sky when he left, starts to dip, and the light begins to shutter behind the canopy of trees, leaving the sky starched and colorless.

The Greeks will win the battle. The Trojans will retreat behind towering barricades, and back up the long hill our men will march. Some will be wounded, maybe. Some dead. But most will saunter back up into camp with flushed faces and laughter pouring through parched lips.

He- my Patroclus- will be leading them in my armour. He will smile, when he sees me. He will step off the chariot and jump into my arms, twisting his fingers through my hair and easing against my chest, and I will chide him on how dangerous it was for him to go, but I will secretly be proud, so proud that he is brave and good and that I get to love him. I will tell him all of this later when we are in bed, and he will kiss me and tell me that he is happy, in return.

But for now, I wait. And I ignore the feeling deep in my stomach that maybe-

No. He will come home to me, and we will be happy again. He swore it. He swore that I would be the first, and he has never broken a promise to me before.

********

The men are coming back. I tell myself to relax.

_Breathe. It will be alright._

********

The first thing I register is the blood. It soaks the air like a sickening perfume, and it is everywhere- splattering the dusty earth, staining the men’s armour, smeared across skin like warpaint. Everywhere I look is red.

My eyes cling to that which is familiar. There is Odysseus, limping alongside the other kings. Diomedes, disheveled but unharmed. Ajax leans against his men for support, his weight buckling over a sliced knee. I am disappointed to see that Agamemnon has survived yet another battle- the vile creature. His brother Menelaus walks beside him, and my gaze drops to the thing held in his arms.

I do not understand what I am seeing, at first. _Blood_ , my mind supplies dumbly.

A moment more. Just one more second of not understanding, please-

Then the realization of what I am seeing hits me like a steel punch to the stomach, and I choke.

Because it is him.

Patroclus.

My knees buckle.

His stomach has been cut open. Blood pours out of his belly, smearing across his white face, his limp hands- I don’t even know if he’s _breathing_ -

It is too bright, all of a sudden. Everything is muffled and disoriented, and sharp sounds and lights keep cutting into my eyes and splitting through my skull. I am stumbling forward, dazedly staggering over my own two feet, and I don’t want to look down but I do and there he is, his body drenched in bright red and suddenly it is on my hands, it is all over me, I can’t see anything but red-

_I should have been there, I should have been there to protect him-_

_He cannot fight and I let him go anyway-_

I wonder if I am about to be sick.

I stagger closer, afraid of what I am about to see. My eyes drop of their own accord, and a heavy relief sweeps through my body- he is alive- but there is still so much blood; it is clear that the wound is serious. He’s hurt, he’s bleeding, and his eyes are wide and he’s whimpering my name and all I can see is the huge gash ripping open his stomach, showing me parts of him I never ever wanted to see-

I think I am screaming. It is hard to tell.

“Achilles,” he wheezes. His voice is mangled, and the word is slurred together so that I can hardly recognize it as my name at all.

Panic cracks through my skull and splinters through my body. My heart is hiccuping against my ribs. I can almost hear it severing, crack crack cracking into pieces. All around me, men are running and shouting, and clouds of dust whirl up in their wake and surround us.

“No,” I sob. “ _No._ ”

My Patroclus is holding my hand, squeezing it lightly. I am frightened and dizzy when I realize how cold his skin is. His face turns ashen as the life leaks out of his body and coats the ground like sticky red nectar, and I am hovering uselessly over the wound, trying to staunch the blood but suddenly I am forgetting everything Chiron taught us-

_What do I do, help help helphelphelp-_

_I can’t, I can’t I can’t-_

His eyes- his beautiful, sweet, brown eyes- find me, and I grip him to my body. “Shhhh,” I choke out, brushing dust and blood-encrusted hair back with shaking hands. “Sh-shhh. It-it’s- y-you’re-”

His lip trembles. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and-

I shatter.

The dam behind my eyes breaks and the tears come flooding out, and then I am out of air, gasping as sobs violently wrack my entire frame, mouth twisted in a silent scream. I cannot see his face. I cannot see anything but a swirl of dull colors, cannot hear anything through the bubble of pressure building in my ears. But I feel his fingers lace through mine. I feel him breathing shallowly against my chest. I feel him slackening in my arms, and delirious hysteria squeezes my lungs, and suddenly I am confused because my Patroclus would never leave me alone. This must be an imposter because my Patroclus would never ever do this to me. My Patroclus knows how much I love him, he knows that I love him so so so much- he knows I wouldn’t survive without him-

He knows that I-

He knows-

“Achilles,” he garbles, and I blink blink blink back the tears so I can see his face. Gorgeous, even when he is bloody and pale and weak. Gorgeous because he is still alive, and he is still mine, and I love him so so so so much-

_Where are the healers-_

_Help, someone, please-_

“Patroclus,” I gasp. The word bursts out of me with a force, and then I am repeating it, over and over and over and over again because it is my favorite word in the world and he needs to _know_ that, he needs to _know-_

He smiles up at me lazily, and his eyes- shining with fever- start to dim.

_NO._

Then hands are grabbing me by the arms, yanking me away from him, and I am screaming and thrashing and cursing. They are taking me away from him. A vicious, scalding fury rips through me, and there are shouts of pain and the crunch of broken bones and then I am drunkenly sprinting to the healer’s tent.

When I burst in, I expect to see every healer helping him. I expect to see rolls of bandages wrapping around his wound. I expect to smell crushed medicines and herbs on him. But I don’t.

The healer’s aren’t even paying attention to him.

He’s _bleeding out_ , and all Machaon has done is package his stomach in a single white strip, which has rapidly turned pink.

My mind stutters in horrified confusion for all of five seconds. Wondering why my Patroclus, who clearly needs more help than all the other men in here, is being left to die.

Then the answer punches me in the lungs, and I do not know whether to scream or be sick.

They’re not helping him because they think it’s too late. They are focusing on the men they believe can be saved, and my Patroclus-

My Patroclus is not one of them.

Panic and grief squeeze my chest. Then anger.

Spitting, roaring anger explodes inside of me and branches out through my limbs like a growing inferno. I saunter across the tent and seize Machaon by the front of his tunic, and he drops a bowl in shock.

“ _Save. Him_ ,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

I see the understanding in his eyes. The resistance seeps out of him like liquid, and he lays a hand meant to be comforting on my fist. “I am sorry,” he says, as if he is. “He has lost too much blood. It is too late.”

I feel like I’ve been struck. My vision tunnels, and a violent spasm jerks through my arms. My throat is constricting. “No. No! _You will save him, because if you don’t I will murder every man here, starting with you!_ ”

With a wince, Machaon shakes himself loose from my grip and scrambles over to Patroclus.

Patroclus lies limply on the cot, sinking in a pool of glistening blood. His eyes are closed, and his face is twisted in agony. His breathing is ragged and irregular- breaths growing smaller by the second- and his fingers are cold and loose as mine weave through them, squeezing his hand tightly. I do not know what I mean to accomplish by this. Maybe I think that if I squeeze hard enough, I can transfer some of my life to him. I would give him all of my life, if I needed to.

A sob bursts through my lips.

I sink to the ground beside him, holding his hand in my own..

“I love you,” I breathe. My voice is choked and my breath hitched, but the words tumble out with surprising clarity. “I love you so much, I love you, I love you…” 

His hair is plastered across his sweaty face and tumbles into his eyes as he tips his head. His skin is flushed, but it looks enough like blush that maybe I can pretend that I’ve said something cheeky and embarrassed him- maybe he’s not hurt- not dying-

I am not a religious man, but I pray then. I pray to every deity that might be listening to save him. I make a list of the Gods in my head and say a prayer to each, and the desperation with which I plead for them to save his life is so overwhelming that it threatens to drown me.

He cannot go. He cannot go. A world without Patroclus might as well be hell.

He is-

 _Everything_ , to me.

Starlight and warmth and kindness. He is safety where there is danger and comfort where there is none to be found. He is gentle with me because he alone knows that _that_ is what I need- not the bitterness of bloody triumph, but the sweetness of soft kisses and warm embraces. Not spears and vicious war, but gentle words spoken under starry skies, and the promise of eternal happiness.

And now he is dying. He is dying, and it is all- _all_ my fault.

I may as well have killed him myself.

“You can’t leave me,” I cry. Machaon might not as well be here, for all I care. “You promised!”

Brown eyes flutter open, the exact color of the earth beneath summer skies.

“I… didn’t…” he says softly. “Didn’t mean…to…”

His head tips to the side, and his eyes shutter closed.

No no no no _NO_ -

_NO, PLEASE-_

_ANYONE BUT HIM-_

I am screaming. I feel the rawness rip from my lungs, feel nails raking down my throat as I pour my anguish into the open. Hands are yanking me away from him again, and I fight for a moment but the realization that he is dead crushes me so completely that I sink to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Everything is on fire. Everything is burning.

Patroclus is dead.

He is dead, and I am a ruin.

I get to see him one last time, before they pull me away. One last glimpse of russet hair and warm skin, one last glimpse before he is gone forever.

A last, pained sob slices through the air, and then I collapse to the ground.

********

We were young and foolish boys. Chasing sunlight and making half-witted promises of immortal joy.

I wish he had never been born, then.

********

Hours pass by in a haze. His body is still in the healer’s tent. They won’t let me near him.

Hector will be dead soon.

The battle that passes the next day is a blur. My body is exhausted, but the unrelenting desire to give up and die is just barely overwhelmed by the need to kill Hector. And so there are two battles: the Greeks and the Trojans, and the one fought in my mind- between grief and rage; the need to die and the need to kill.

Even the thought of Hector’s name evokes within me a scalding, blistering hate. It is an anger like none I have ever felt before, an anger that makes me drunk with bloodlust and one that makes me think I could kill a god with my bare hands.

I breathe it, taste it on my tongue, feel it boiling through my veins like molten lava. Under its spell, I am a monster, untethered from humanity, a vicious beast who craves only blood and feels nothing as my blade detaches heads from bodies, who does not even spare a glance to those I carve open.

It is better than the grief, though. Better than the asphyxiating guilt, and less painful than the splintering heartbreak stewing just beneath the surface.

Through all this, there is only one coherent thought in my mind.

I die after Hector does.

_I die after Hector does, and I will see Patroclus again soon._

And so the bodies fall like autumn leaves; bones and twisted limbs draw patterns of blood as they scatter at my feet. White noise has filled my head. I roar, and the sound erupts through the air like thunder, like a lion’s cry.

I do not hear the messenger until he is doubled over at my side, heaving for air, face purple. I see the Greek armour gleaming on his chest and just barely refrain from killing him; it is only the pained “wait!” that spares him from my spear.

“I have- I have- a message-” he gasps.

His eyes flicker upward. I do not mistake the way he slowly steps back upon meeting my eyes, the way his knuckles whiten around his spear.

“He- Patroclus,” the man exhales, and a wave of suffocating despair fills my throat. “He’s- alive. He told me to- tell you- urgent-”

My hands are wrapped around his throat before he utters another word. “ _You LIE!_ ” I bellow. I want to rip out his spine for daring to speak his name to me. I want him burning in the pits of Tartarus. “ _He’s dead! He’s gone and he’s NOT- COMING- BACK!_ ” Each word is punctuated by a squeeze until the messenger is clutching at my fingers, gasping for breath as his face turns blue.

“F-f-figs-”

My grip loosens. “What?” I ask, softly.

His eyes are popping from their sockets. “T-told me-” he gargles, “figs.”

My hands slip. He crumples to the ground.

And then I am running.

********

The entire world melts away as I sprint across the battlefield. I have never run so fast in all my life- my feet are barely touching the ground; I might as well have sprouted wings. Even now, when I could outrun Hermes himself- I am not moving fast enough.

Tears are openly streaming down my face, burning my eyes and scalding my cheeks. My heart is stuttering in my throat. I have forgotten how to breathe.

I do not dare to believe it. Because if I let myself hope- if I- and he’s- if he-

My breath catches. I run.

********

I am standing outside the healer's tent. I cannot move.

I am too scared to go inside.

Suddenly, the tent flap opens, and the slave girl walks out. Her eyes are sparkling, and her breast is heaving. She stops and stares at me, but I do not see hate or repulsion there; there is only disbelief.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

She nods anyway.

I close my eyes and count to three.

_One._

_Two._

_T h r e e._

I push back the flap, and step inside. My eyes are shut tightly. Fear of what I will see when I open them is sitting on my chest like an anchor, crushing me.

"Achilles," says a voice.

It is him.

I spin around, and my eyes lock with his- dark brown, the color of the earth after rain- eyes I thought I would never see again-

A sound escapes me, and I stagger over to where he lays before collapsing in a heap of messy, heaving sobs.

My Patroclus is alive. He's alive. He's alive alive alive-

I didn't know happiness could be this painful; it explodes within me, and it crackles like fire in my veins, igniting me from the inside- it is a happiness that could kill me-

"Shhh," Patroclus whispers. "Shhh, I'm here, I'm here."

I slide my arms around him and bury my face into the crook of his neck, hysterically sobbing, and he rubs soothing circles on my back and whispers things I can't hear in my ear, and when he pulls back I see that his eyes are swimming too, and I am struck again by how profoundly beautiful he is- _he's so beautiful_

"Y-you were dead," I grate, throat thick.

He cups my face in his strong, warm hands and smiles, even as tears slide down his cheeks and slip over his lips. "No," he rasps. "I was sleeping."

And then we are laughing and crying and kissing, and I breathe him in like air until his scent fills my brain, holding him to me so tightly that it is a wonder at all that we were ever separate in the first place. I press my head against his chest and relish in the sure beating of his heart. I do not think I will be able to sleep without his chest pressed against my ear ever again.

We pour our love and grief out in a deep, passionate kiss, and his lips are softer and sweeter than they have ever been before.

He is alive again, and so am I.

********

The sky washes over with darkness, and starlight blinds me.

Patroclus- _my_ Patroclus, he is mine, he promised me so- nestles against me, and I smile.

There are still some things broken between us. I still cannot look at the jagged scar across his stomach without whimpering. We still cannot speak of that horrible day without shouting and tears. The anger and heartache that bubbles up within me is still relentlessly fierce and bitter- " _Why did you fight at all? You promised, you promised me_ "- though I know it is a mere deflection of guilt. There are days when I cannot stand to be away from him, when I feel that if I let him out of my sight for just a moment, he will disappear forever. Days when I cannot even get out of bed, when the nightmares seep into daytime hallucinations, and Patroclus has to hold me for hours to make them go away.

But most days aren't like that.

Most days are cotton blue skies and rolling fields and stargazing. Most days are colorful and happy and beautiful, and it is all because of him. I know it is.

We are young again, and our whole lives are ahead of us.

And just so Patroclus doesn’t forget, just so he knows-

I tell him, every night, that I love him.

“Achilles,” Patroclus whispers back, and his eyes hold the moon.

**Author's Note:**

> SIKE I DIDN’T ACTUALLY KILL HIM
> 
> I was actually gonna just let him be dead, but then I said, fuck it, this fandom is too angsty, I will not participate
> 
> So Patroclus lives, and our beautiful Greek boys go home and grow old together, happy and in love until their last breaths (which they obviously take together).
> 
> Also fun fact that idk if anyone noticed. But. In TSOA the first and last words are “my” and “sun”. I may have taken inspiration from this :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and/or comments literally make my day!


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